


It Doesn't Matter

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: ASL, After-care, Alternate Universe, Autistic Jack, Celiac Jack, Deaf Bitty, Fluff, Gluten-Free Baking, Happy Ending, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, Multi, NHL Kent, Occasional non-verbal Jack, PB&J, Pining, Polyamory, Student!Bitty, Sugar Daddy Jack, Sugar Daddy Kent, Sugar baby Bitty, established relationships - Freeform, nhl jack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 08:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10693185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They're content with what they have.  Eric Bittle is paid well, and he's taken care of, and he takes care of his boys right back.  And it's great, and it's wonderful, until it isn't.  Until feelings get involved.





	It Doesn't Matter

**Author's Note:**

> A proper sugar-daddy AU. (Yes I deleted my old one, there was no way I was going to finish it. Maybe some day, but don't count on it. I'm much happier with this one).
> 
> No real warnings, except some mentions of PTSD, and Jack's canon overdose--nothing in explicit detail.
> 
> Bitty's experiences with CIs are both real and frustrating--especially when parents are dealing with audist doctors (who are all over and will try and convince you that CIs are the only way babies will be able to live normal lives. Never believe a doctor who says this). Nerve damage/facial paralysis happens with CIs. Not a lot, but it's a potential side-effect of the surgery.
> 
> Bitty's gluten-free baking comes from my experiences experimenting with different flours and xanthan gum. It's not perfect, but I can actually make very fluffy, light madeleines with a gluten-free mixture of flours (and they are amazing with tea), and I've gotten not half bad at working with cakes and cookies as well.
> 
> Let me know if I've forgotten any tags. I'm not on tumblr, and now that there's a checkplease website I haven't been on tumblr in a few weeks now, but if you need to find me, I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/omgittybits)

It happened like this.

The Aces decided to set up some camps for kids, and Kent and Jeff ended up heading the camp for D/deaf/HoH kids. Kent decided to check around for a local tutor because the very least he could do was learn the basics of ASL, and that’s where he met Eric Bittle.

He was a grad student, hard-up for cash, tutoring on the side because the bakery was cutting hours, and Eric’s had been the first to get slashed. His loans barely covered living expenses, and Kent had a near endless wallet when it came to being able to pay for something like language tutoring.

And then it went like this.

Eric’s left processor on his cochlear implant busted, and his insurance was only going to cover part of the replacement cost, and Eric had no savings.

Kent made a joke about being a sugar daddy, and the glint in Eric’s eye said he wasn’t entirely opposed to the idea.

And finally it went like this.

Kent took the idea home to his boyfriend Jack, who was at first jealous, then curious. Then he tried Eric’s soups, and met him, and after one bad day got one of Eric Bittle’s hugs and batch of gluten-free cookies.

There was a contract signed, a non-disclosure agreement. They paid in cash, and Eric’s bank account was never empty. He got his processors both upgraded, and he kept tutoring Kent in ASL on the side—Jack would sit in too, and the camp was a success.

Kent and Jack’s house never lacked pies, and Eric Bittle’s feet never lacked designer shoes, or new figure skates, and his kitchen never lacked the latest mixer or random gadget because Jack really liked shopping the as-seen-on-TV section every time Kent dragged him to Bed Bath and Beyond.

And that’s how it might have stayed, if feelings hadn’t gotten in the way.

*** 

“Oh my god, Kent. Hold still. I’m not gonna listen to you complain about smudges if you can’t stop fidgeting.”

“Uhg. Bits, we’ve been doing this for hours,” Kent groaned, letting his head flop against the arm of the sofa.

Eric raised an eyebrow at Kent, and swiped acetone along the side of his toenail. “You’re the one who insisted on this. It’s not like I make toenail painting a hobby.” From his place on the floor, he lifted Kent’s foot above the bowl of water and examined the not-quite mess he’d made. Kent had sent him tutorial after tutorial using a bowl of water, swirls of varnish, and cotton swabs to tidy up the edges.

So far it didn’t quite look like the video’s end result, but it wasn’t terrible.

Kent kicked at Eric. “Earn your keep.”

“Hush your mouth or I’m gonna lose all those peaches I just bought,” Eric snapped back with a tiny grin.

Kent gasped, a hand to his chest. “You would deprive me of proper nutrition?”

“Chirp chirp, Mr Parson. Now do I really have to do all ten toes here? I feel like this is only going to end in disaster.”

Kent cocked his head to the side. “Nah. Maybe just do like black with glitter over the top for the rest?”

“That’ll look real nice,” Eric said with an approving nod. He propped Kent’s foot up on his thigh, smiling when Kent wriggled his toes. But the polish was added, then the glitter, and a clear top coat to set everything.

They’d been at it so long Eric’s toes had gone numb from the position on the floor, so when he stood, he promptly fell right onto Kent’s lap. It certainly wasn’t unwelcome. Kent wrapped his arms tight round Eric’s waist, and pushed his nose against the side of Eric’s neck.

“Hey babe.”

“Don’t be getting fresh with me just yet,” Eric said, smiling as he smacked Kent on the arm. “Your toes need an hour to dry and I need to start that batch of protein bars I promised Jack.”

“You spoil him way more than me,” Kent pouted.

Eric wriggled out of Kent’s grasp, testing his legs. His feet felt uncomfortable, but the pins and needles were fading. He reached up, switching off his processors, then set them on the coffee table. He never baked with them on. It always felt strangely unnatural, and the noises of the mixer were always a bit overwhelming. Eric’s parents had opted for the surgery when he was five months old, after his GP had told them his only real chance at hearing would be if they did it early.

It hadn’t gone well. Eric suffered some nerve damage from it—the left side of his face suffered paralysis which had been partially corrected through more surgery. But not completely. He had dulled feeling, and the left side of his mouth didn’t move nearly as much as his right.

And there were the headaches, of course.

Eric tried not to blame his parents. They didn’t know. He was the first and probably only Deaf kid born to either side of the family. They had panicked, they had listened to a doctor who believed deaf should be cured, and Eric had suffered for it.

He’d been assimilated, and denied sign language until he was in high school, and he’d struggled.

But he didn’t hate them.

Resentment sat under his skin some days, but he couldn’t say he wasn’t happy most of the time anyway.

‘You sit tight and if you don’t smudge your toes I’ll make you coconut chocolate chip bars.’

Kent’s eyes went wide and bright, and he situated himself on the sofa with his hands folded primly, making Eric giggle, swat at him, then kiss him again before he disappeared into the kitchen to work.

The Parson-Zimmermann kitchen lacked nothing. It was a dream, with everything he’d missed from the bakery, with none of the awful stuff like shitty co-workers and irritated customers. It had been months since Eric had to remind either of the NHL players to buy a certain type of flour or sugar, and thanks to Jack’s condition, Eric was getting damn good at tweaking gluten-free recipes so they were almost all worth eating.

Of course Jack, who hadn’t had any type of gluten flour since he was three, didn’t really remember the difference anyway. But Eric had put together a batch of chocolate-dipped Madeleines made with a mixture of rice and potato flour, extra xanthan gum, and he’d seen the way Jack’s eyes had gone wide and surprised before he threw his arms round Eric and hugged him.

And Jack Zimmermann did not do hugs.

He didn’t do much physical contact, actually.

Jack was…a complicated sort of man, really. One Eric didn’t think would ever warm to him. He’d been gruff and crass, his accent was particularly difficult for Eric to understand since the Quebecois tended to run Jack’s words together, even in English. He didn’t like making eye-contact, and touch with him was iffy.

From his bio—and yes Eric had snooped—he learnt Jack was diagnosed Autistic at age eight. He’d been living with Celiac’s since he was three, and a diagnosed anxiety disorder since he was twelve. There were other things—gossip columns and rumours about Jack being an alcoholic, or a junkie, or other things they clearly didn’t understand.

Kent had shared a little of the story. Stress making it impossible for Jack to function, him relying too much on his pills, letting his health tank, and the eventual overdose. Pictures of Jack entering rehab still existed—grainy and old, but there was no mistaking him.

He’d recovered, and entered the AHL a year after Kent was drafted to the Aces. He played a full season before he was picked up by the Schooners, and eventually traded to the Aces.

He wore his A to Kent’s C, and they had three cups under their belt, and secret engagement rings they wore on necklaces under their shirts. Jack’s was made of silicone, and when he was reading, he’d chew on it.

When Eric asked, Kent said he wasn’t sure if they’d ever actually get married, but he didn’t need to. They were happy like this.

And it seemed like they were.

Kent had his own stuff going on. PTSD—he’d been the one to find Jack, and then he’d been cut off and thrown into the madness that was the NHL and expected to be at his top performance, and break records that old Veterans had set, and earn his place on the Vegas team.

It had been a lot.

Eric knew they both had therapists. He knew that Jack needed space and quiet, and Kent needed a lot of love and validation.

And he knew that after this much time, they really did want him here.

It was a strange set-up. A business deal with money rolling in weekly—cash in hand and his student loans nearly paid off. But there was affection, too. Genuine caring if Eric’s needs were being met, and if he was doing okay, and constantly checking to make sure he felt safe.

They’d learnt his language—or were learning, they were working hard and even Jack who struggled with changes in his routine, had thrown himself into it with a whole, open heart.

Eric wasn’t sure what the future would hold. Sugar baby forums he’d seen online didn’t get into that. Too many just said they were able to leave with a fat savings and a college degree, and a new car. Eric wasn’t opposed to that. But the thought of his contract ending and never being able to see them again, never texting or having a sudden midnight craving for ice cream and one enthusiastic blonde who was happy to drag him to the all-night parlour on the strip…

The thought was crushing and terrifying and left his knees weak and his hands shaking.

But he wasn’t going to think about that now.

For now he had this. And it was good.

*** 

Kent fell asleep—as Eric had expected—about ten minutes into the protein bars. Eric had thrown on his headphones, cracking Beyonce up all the way. Without his processor on, he couldn’t hear anything, but the beat from her music was a rhythm he could dance to, and he was bopping round the kitchen to Single Ladies—mouthing the words which were probably all in the wrong spot—and getting Kent’s coconut bars on the rack to cool when he felt the vibrations of stomping under his feet.

He spun on his heel, and his face broke out into a wide, warm smile when he saw Jack stood there with Kit in his arms, petting her gently until she wriggled away and rushed into the other room.

Eric quickly switched off the iPod, then tapped the side of his head. ‘CIs are off. How was your day?’

‘Good,’ Jack signed. Eric loved the way Jack signed. His fingers were sharp, technical, a little stiff. It was like an accent, he tried to explain to Kent, whose signs were wider, a little lazier, but sweet. ‘Long day. What are you making?’

‘Coconut bars,’ he spelt slowly, since neither Jack nor Kent were fully up to Deaf speed with the alphabet just yet. ‘And…’ He reached into the proving drawer where the protein bars were setting, and he banged them onto the counter. ‘For you. For the guys.’

Jack leant forward, his nostrils flaring as he sniffed them, and he looked up, his mouth twitching into a half smile as he offered out his fist for Eric to bump. ‘Thank you,’ he signed.

‘No worries,’ Eric replied. “Go on and get your shower. I know you want one. Then you can wake up Kenny and we can figure out dinner,” he said, switching to speech as his hands became occupied with his knife.

Jack nodded, then leant in. There was slight hesitation, because his physical affection with Eric was not often, and always cautious. But after what felt like an eternity, he brushed his lips against Eric’s temple, leaving the spot burning and aching for more.

Eric fought the desire to reach out, to ask for more, because he knew what Jack could handle. Jack never hesitated giving, when he was ready. So he took it for what it was, wonderful and worth remembering forever, and he went back to cutting perfect individual squares.

*** 

Kent was the first to spot Eric’s grimace, and he reached across the table, touching his wrist. “I didn’t realise there was going to be teams here tonight. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The place was incredibly loud, three amateur baseball teams celebrating something—wins, losses, none of them were sure. But they were drinking and laughing and playing darts. It wasn’t the most posh restaurant, but Jack loved their menu because they offered gluten-free options—ones that were prepared in a gluten-free space which they always had a hard time tracking down in Vegas.

So the three of them were sat as far away from the ruckus as they could be, with a large plate of chicken tenders breaded in ground almond and walnuts, and pub fries with the cheese Kent liked so much, in the middle of the table. Jack had water, Eric and Kent were drinking beer, and Eric was trying to control the stabbing pains in his ear the shouts were creating.

He didn’t always wear his implants, but he did more often when he was out with Jack and Kent because signing always drew attention. Always. Curious people, mostly, who meant no harm. But Eric wasn’t allowed to be anything more than a casual friend, and he couldn’t be casual if people noticed Jack and Kent out with him all the time.

Mostly Eric was non-descript. He could wear a low hat and keep his distance and not laugh too loudly, and no one noticed. Vegas had the Aces, but they weren’t a hockey town.

Yet they were in a sport bar, and Eric was always afraid that this was too good to be true. That someone might notice, and they might hack into Jack or Kent’s finances. They might see massive chunks of money being withdrawn every week and they might notice that Eric Bittle, a grad student with no job and no loans, suddenly had new Louboutins and Gucci luggage.

So he did what he could to lessen the risk.

But tonight was a little more difficult than usual.

He waved off Kent’s concern, and grabbed a fry from the plate. “Seriously, it’s fine. I don’t even have a headache or anything.”

That was true. For now. But he could feel the prickling at the base of his neck letting him know one was on the horizon if he wasn’t careful.

He felt Jack’s eyes on him, piercing and calculating. It made his cheeks flush red hot, but before he could say anything, Jack pushed back without a word, and stalked off.

Eric dropped his face into his hand. “Lord. He’s upset, isn’t he? I swear, Kenny, I don’t mean to be a burden. I really am fine. I’m just…”

Kent reached under the table, squeezing Eric’s thigh high up. “Babe. Seriously, you are never a burden. Like…literally ever, okay? You’re such a national treasure, I can’t believe Nick Cage hasn’t tried to steal you yet.”

Eric’s eyes went wide. “Kent. That was…the most awful thing you have ever said. Ever. I’m…I want a divorce.”

Kent snorted beer, and the pair of them giggled until Jack returned suddenly. His face was drawn, eyes a little narrow and it was hard to tell if it was annoyance or concern. But his hands were full of white, Styrofoam take-away boxes, and without consulting the other two, he began to pack everything up.

Eric’s protests died in his throat when Jack said, “I paid the bill already. Let’s go.”

Eric had trouble with tones, and especially Jack’s, so he tried to read his face. He was getting used to the subtle expressions that were Jack’s. Hockey had labelled him a robot, but that wasn’t right. It wasn’t Jack’s fault no one paid attention. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that only a few people understood dry humour. Eric was getting better, but tonight his anxiety, his fear of being a burden rather than a blessing, was getting to be too much.

He felt a hand at the small of his back though, for only a second, and he caught a glimpse of Kent’s smile before he was ushered out of the pub, and down the street to Kent’s car.

They’d parked in VIP parking, under an awning. The parking lot was blessedly empty, and Eric was coming down from the post-noise buzzing running up and down his spine, and making everything sound strange and tinny. His head was bowed slightly as they hit the cover of darkness, and he muttered, “Sorry,” as he reached for the door handle.

Anything else he meant to say died on his lips when a warm hand touched him. He expected Kent, but Kent was already in the driver’s seat. Jack’s head dipped, and his lips brushed Eric’s temple again, making Eric’s heart beat wildly against his ribs.

“I don’t want to you to feel like that again. Next time we’ll just get it all to go. I like being home better than that anyway.”

Simple, and to the point, and three sentences made Eric feel better than he’d felt all night.

He was smiling fully by the time he got into the car, and put on his seat belt.

*** 

Eric had his processors off, but he could feel the vibrations of Kent’s loud, “Ung, ah ah, fuck, yes, fuck,” under his fingers as Kent bounced on his dick. Eric’s back was braced up against the soft headboard, his legs stretched out under Kent’s thighs. The fingers of his right hand were digging into Kent’s hips, his left cupping the side of Kent’s throat. His thumb brushed gently against Kent’s adam’s apple, just a slight pressure against it, just the way Kent wanted.

His eyes threatened to roll back in his head, but he fixed them on Kent’s pink mouth which was flushed and swollen from sucking Eric’s dick until he almost came.

Almost.

Then he’d stopped, and kissed against Eric’s thigh, climbed up and said, “Babe, I wanna ride you so fucking bad.”

Eric once thought the sex would stop being so mind-blowing after he got used to it, but there was no getting used to Kent Parson’s near desperate fucking techniques.

Sometimes it was this. Sometimes it was Eric laying in the bed jacking himself off slowly, lightly, not reaching the edge yet while Kent was in the bathroom using an enema until he was cleaned out and ready to take whatever Eric wanted to give him. 

Sometimes it was Eric bending Kent over the bed and fucking Kent with fingers and tongue until he sobbed, and came without being touched before Eric shoved his dick in and rode against Kent’s ass until he was near tears.

Sometimes it was more desperate. Sometimes Kent struggled with the feeling of losing control of his life. So Eric let Kent pin him to the wall, lift him by the hips, and fuck him until Eric saw stars.

Sometimes it was tender. One of them on their backs, the other between their thighs. It was kissing and gentle touches and eye contact. It was whispered words and easy signs that neither of them were really paying attention to—because tender words could be dangerous in a situation like this.

Sometimes it was like this. It was Kent wanting to pleasure himself, and wanting to watch him pleasure Eric with how tight he was, using so much lube it dribbled out with every thrust.

It was always careful after. Their kinks were mild, but Eric learnt early on the amount of after-care Kent needed didn’t depend on the type of fucking. So there would be a shower, to clean up anything left over. Then there was a bath, with bath bombs and bath melts, and very foamy shampoo, and Eric’s clever fingers leaving Kent’s blonde, untameable locks squeaking clean and smelling of roses.

They’d face each other after, and Eric would slather on a bubble beard and shave Kent with the side of his finger, and take photos for Jack to chirp him with. They’d work on signs together, and Eric would teach him idioms and puns that Kent would never learn in an ASL class.

Eric gave him his sign name in the bath one day, and Kent had kissed him after, and kissed him and kissed him until the bubbles were gone and the water was cold.

The thought of losing all that was starting to weigh on him, Eric realised as he bubbled up Kent’s eyebrows.

‘Babe?’

Eric blinked out of his thoughts, then used the tips of his fingers to pretend pluck the bubble hairs away. “Sorry,” he whispered aloud. “Having trouble getting out of my head today.”

Kent looked concerned. He kissed the corner of Eric’s mouth—the droopy left side, and Eric became suddenly aware that Kent always kissed him there first.

‘What’s the worst question people always ask you?’ Kent wondered a minute later.

Eric hummed as he sat back and let Kent rub the arches of his feet. He knew the answer, of course. He didn’t even need to think about it. ‘Do you read lips,’ he replied.

Kent snorted, and though Eric couldn’t hear it, he knew by the way Kent’s nostrils flared that he was giving his snort-laugh. ‘You’re bad at it.’

Eric wrinkled his nose and kicked at him, then shrieked a laugh as Kent began to tickle his feet. They wrestled and slopped water all over the floor until Eric admonished him for making more work for the cleaning service that would be over during the evening while Jack and Kent were at their game.

They towelled off and began to dress, and as Eric slipped his processors into his ears, the first thing he heard was Kent clearing his throat. He turned to find Kent in his fancy, black silk boxers, holding a red box in his hand.

“I was with Jack the other day and he said this reminded him of you.”

Eric was used to gifts. The perks of sugar-baby status was that he was never lacking in presents. Feel-good gift cards, or clothes, or shoes. Sometimes flowers. Always baking supplies.

This box was smaller, the size of Kent’s palm, and thick. He gingerly opened the top, and saw a watch nestled against black velvet. The straps were matte, and the face was rose gold in the shape of a peach, and it would have been ridiculous, but it was elegant and gorgeous. There was an inscription on the inside, an engraving of the ILY sign.

Eric blinked up, staring at Kent. “I love it.”

I love you, hung in the air, impossible to ignore now, because it was staring him in the face.

And of course he expected they loved him a little. Love wasn’t some romance movie. Love had layers, it was a spectrum of affection, and Eric didn’t think you could care this much, and get involved this much, without loving the person at least a little.

But it felt heavy.

He smiled anyway, and hugged Kent before letting Kent put it on him. “Thank you,” he said.

“Well,” Kent replied, “it really was mostly Jack.”

Eric suddenly realised in that moment, most of the gifts were.

*** 

“…and he wants to take me to Cabo next week, after all the white assholes on Spring Break leave. His abulita has a house there and he’s pretty sure it’s going to one of his cousins so he wants to get some use out of it before one of them takes over and he never gets to see it again.”

Eric was only half listening to Chris as he adjusted the jacket round his shoulders. Kent had gifted him with a credit card to Stitched, and he was currently turning back and forth in the mirror with a blazer he loved, but wasn’t sure he’d ever get the chance to wear it anywhere.

He turned back to Chris who had two pairs of shades pushed into his hair. He had a bruise on his temple which looked darker in the dim light of the shop. He’d taken a puck to the face during practise, and was waiting for clearance to be back on the ice with contact.

“Well I think you should go. Lord what I wouldn’t give to have a boyfriend whisk me away to the coast.”

Chris was one of the few who knew about Eric’s arrangement with Jack and Kent, one of the few who wouldn’t judge or look askance. He bit down on his lip as he looked at Eric. “You should ask the boys. Go somewhere no one would recognise you.”

Eric turned back to the mirror and stared at himself. “I…don’t think it would feel the same.” Saying it aloud made it hurt a little more, but he tried not to wince. Instead he took a step closer to the mirror and used his finger to push the left side of his mouth up a little higher. “Do you think they’d like me? I mean…if things were different?”

Warm fingers came round his wrist, pulling Eric’s hand away from his face. “I think they already like you.”

“Well…I know that,” Eric said, and pretended like he didn’t understand the tone Chris was using. He glanced at his wrist, at the watch nestled there, that he hadn’t taken off. “Shitty brought me in for a renegotiation of my contract. I’m getting another grand a week. I’m going to spend it all on baking supplies and eat my weight in gluten-free dark chocolate, cranberry bars.”

“Nursey is going to want a dozen,” Chris said with a half smile.

Eric laughed. “Done. Invite me for dinner, and I’ll have you swimming in baked goods.”

Chris slung his arm round Eric’s shoulders and tugged at him a little. “Get the blazer. It looks amazing, and it’ll give you a reason not to say no next time you have the chance to do something a little fancy.”

Well…it was hard to argue with that logic.

Eric ended up buying two, one in blue, and one in a soft grey that brought out his eyes.

*** 

He wouldn’t have woken up, probably, if he hadn’t been so near the edge of his bed that he was almost falling off of it. His knuckles were grazing the polished wood floors, and it was the vibrations of something heaving being lifted and dropped that did it. 

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

His sleep-brain panicked, and he was out of his bed, skidding across the floors in his knee-socks, his boxers precariously low on his hips. He was in the hallway and fumbling for something to hit with. A hockey stick signed by Crosby Kent had gotten him as a joke to chirp Jack.

It was over his head and a noise which was probably high-pitched and terrifying escaping his throat as he wielded the weapon at the evil monsters who were…

Installing an oven?

He managed to regain control of himself before he bludgeoned the terrified, very confused man to death. Or at least unconscious. He was fairly strong, after all. The man started talking, a little frantic, way too fast for Eric to even hope to follow.

“Uh sorry I’m Deaf and I have no idea what you’re saying. But I seriously want to know what the fuck is going on so if you could hang on three minutes for me to put my ears on and uh…maybe some clothes and swallow my embarrassment…” He stopped babbling and hurried out of the room.

First thing he did was check his phone for messages, but there was nothing.

He got his processors on, and then a shirt—a faded, over-worn Schooners shirt which he’d stolen off Kent who’d stolen it off Jack—and then he grabbed his phone to send to the group text.

_Which one of you is responsible for my attempted murder of this poor installation guy?_

He made it halfway back to the kitchen before his phone buzzed.

_Kent: What’s that now?_

_Jack: Um. Surprise?_

_Eric: You owe him and me an apology. And him a really big fucking tip because I think he may have had a small coronary._

_Kent: Okay literally someone explain right fucking now._

Eric snapped a photo of the install guy who was watching Eric with wary eyes, flicking to the processors and probably wondering if it was okay to talk now.

“My idiot friends did not tell me they were surprising me for my birthday and I thought you were an intruder,” Eric explained.

The guy laughed, and Eric was pretty sure the sound in that laughter was extreme stress. “It’s fine. As long as we’re cool.”

“I’m really really sorry I tried to murder you. Just trust there’s going to be a nice, fat tip in your future.”

“Perks of being friends with the rich and famous?” the guy asked with a lighter laugh.

Eric’s stomach twisted, but he was a master at lying—to himself, to others. “Exactly. Can I get you anything?”

“I’m good. Almost done here, actually.”

Eric moved to the living room and sent the photo to the group chat.

_Kent: Is that an OVEN._

_Jack: Happy Birthday, Bittle._

_Eric: Did you think I wouldn’t notice because I wouldn’t be able to hear him?_

The thought of that, of Jack taking advantage of Eric’s deafness, even if it was to surprise him with an oven which—he was so not ready to unpack _that_ , well, it hurt.

_Jack: Crisse, Bittle. You said you were going out with Chow and Nurse last night. I assumed you’d stay over._

Eric felt guilt hit him, because that had been the plan. He’d had a date, even. Some guy who worked in PR for Lucasfilms. The guy had talked endlessly about Star Wars and diversity. He was white and patting himself on the back for being a paradigm of anti-racism or something which was making Nursey and Chowder make _that_ face and get drunker and drunker to deal with it.

The guy ended up puking on Eric’s shoes—not his favourite pair, thank god—and they’d put him in an Uber.

“We swear, we had no idea he was such a skeeze,” Derek said, throwing his arm round Eric. “I only met him a few times but he seemed so chill.”

“Let’s go back to ours and we can eat Ben and Jerry’s and make fun of House Hunters,” Chris said.

Eric smiled, but shook his head. “Y’all are so sweet, but I just want to throw these shoes away and take a two hour bath and go to bed.”

He’d done that. All the while wishing Jack and Kent had been there—but Jack’s parents were in town so Eric was on his own until Saturday. Because how, exactly, were Jack and Kent supposed to explain him.

He understood. He felt the sting, but he understood.

He swore he could feel the I Love You burning a hole into the top of his wrist where the watch sat. He took it off before he got home, and tucked it into his pocket where it still was.

Glancing back at the group chat, he read the messages filling up the screen.

_Kent: I can’t believe you got him a fucking oven._

_Jack: You told me separate gifts._

_Kent: Yeah but an oven. I mean, you deserve it, babe. But why didn’t I think of that. Shit. At noon I’m gonna be all fucking embarrassed._

_Jack: We can talk about this Saturday night. You’re coming over, right Bittle?_

_Kent: Oh right. Yeah. You are, right?_

_Jack: Bittle?_

_Kent: Bits?_

_Jack:… … …I’m sorry._

Eric fumbled with the phone, feeling panic and worry because the last thing he wanted to do was seem like he didn’t appreciate the gift. Not when he was sat on his couch sobbing at the fact that these two had gone this far for him.

_Eric: Please don’t be sorry. This is…I feel…seriously thank you. I’m cryin’ into Senor Bun right now. Y’all spoil me way too much. I love…_

_Eric: This birthday._

Both Kent and Jack were typing for so long. So long Eric began to panic that maybe he’d gone too far, that maybe they knew. That maybe they were whispering and asking each other what to say and how to make it go away.

_Jack: We love this birthday too._

_Kent: So fucking much._

Eric let himself stare at the text long after the installation guy had gone, and long after the sun had started to rise over the city.

*** 

“I’m asexual.”

Eric hadn’t expected Jack to say anything. They were on the couch, lying on opposite sides with their feet tangled together in the middle. Jack was reading on his kindle, and Eric had Cupcake Wars on the TV with the sound off and captions on.

They did this a lot. Jack liked company, but he didn’t like the stress of conversation, and he’d been having non-verbal days more and more as the season went on. They were easy to get by, now that Jack knew more ASL, and now that he trusted he could exist in the house with Eric nearby, but was under no obligation to do anything except exist in his own skin.

Eric had seen the look on Jack’s face when he got there—the frown-lines near his mouth, the furrowed brows, the slight tremble in his hands. Eric hadn’t done more than reach out and give them a gentle squeeze before heading to the sofa and getting some TV going.

Jack had paced for a little while, his fingers stimming. His humming was too low for Eric to hear, even with his implants on, but he could see the stress lines on Jack’s throat working.

Jack had eventually settled next to Eric, and pushed his socked feet against Eric’s toes, and smiled as he loaded his book. Eric settled into the cushions, grounded by the warm feel of Jack nearby, and trying to ignore the ever-increasing fear about the loneliness when this eventually ended.

New contract or not, there were never guarantees for forever.

When Jack spoke, it took Eric a minute to process what he’d said, and he turned. He kept his face careful, open, watching as Jack pushed his engagement ring into his mouth, between his teeth.

“Thank you for telling me,” Eric said. “That means a lot.”

Jack stared, a little to the right of Eric’s head, and a little down, near his shoulder. Though Jack never made eye-contact, his gaze was always intense, consuming, never ever lying about how much Jack was seeing you. It made Eric shiver all over.

“I thought you might wonder why I never…why we don’t…because you and Kent do. And we don’t.”

“You and Kent don’t?” Eric wondered, then blushed furiously. “Lordy, ignore that, ignore me. That is none of my business at all. I’m sorry I…”

“Eric,” Jack said. It was rare when he used Eric’s first name. He was always either Bittle, or his name-sign. “I don’t mind telling you. And Kent and I do sometimes. I’m grey-ace. My therapist found the term for me. I don’t like sex all the time. But sometimes I do. I might…” He stopped and took a breath, then shoved the ring into his mouth for a moment, chewing hard. “I might want to with you. Sometime. If you’d be interested. If you…”

“Yes,” Eric said, and realised his voice was a little too loud, and the word a little too quick to have any chill at all. He blushed, but he didn’t look away. Jack’s gaze was somewhere near his collarbone presently, and Eric felt warm there. “I…would want to, of course. I’m attracted to you.”

“I wasn’t sure if it was just Kent.”

“It isn’t,” Eric confirmed. “Don’t get me wrong, if it was never, I’d still like you just the same. But I’m attracted to you and if you ever want to…” 

His words stopped when Jack dropped his kindle and his feet to the floor and shifted so fast Eric barely registered anything except the fact that Jack was suddenly right there, and touching him. And looking him in the eye for a second before his gaze flickered down to his lips. “Can I…kiss you?”

“Feel like right now I might die if you don’t,” Eric confessed, and thought maybe that was a shitty thing to say, except Jack’s hand was moving from his neck to his cheek and cupping his face so tenderly it almost hurt. Eric couldn’t keep his eyes open.

He hadn’t realised until right then how much he wanted this. How he could live without it, but knowing Jack wanted to give it to him was everything, and it meant so fucking much he wanted to cry.

He didn’t cry.

Instead he met Jack’s kiss with one of his own, lips parted slightly, teasing tongue against Jack’s lips when Jack’s tongue did the same to him. His hands found their way to the front of Jack’s shirt, curling into the fabric, loving the soft feel against the pads of his fingers. Jack hummed, Eric feeling the noise more than hearing it. He shifted into the kiss and it carried on and on and on until Jack’s phone buzzed.

They broke apart, slow and steady, Eric’s heart beating so hard he could feel it thrumming under every inch of exposed skin. He watched as Jack flicked the screen on, and smile at it.

“I told Kent I was going to kiss you today. He’s asking if I did.”

“Will he be jealous?” Eric asked.

“Yes,” Jack answered. His honesty without hesitation or question always startled Eric, but always reassured him that Jack would never ever try to lie for his own good. “But he’ll also be happy. Just don’t love me more than him.”

“I…” Eric wanted to deny that love, but couldn’t bring himself to lie to Jack ever. “I won’t,” he said instead, and that was true.

He couldn’t pit one love against the other. They were both a force within themselves, fierce in their own ways, and also soft. They’d integrated themselves into Eric’s life in a way that he thought when they wanted to leave, he’d have to carve them out and he might not survive it. He felt like he’d bleed to death.

“Kent wants to go to dinner tonight. To that vegan Indian shop in Henderson.” He said it with such a casual mention, like Eric wasn’t sat on the other side of the sofa freshly kissed and contemplating how he was going to survive without them some day.

He managed a smile and said, “Sure, sweetpea.”

Jack froze, and his cheeks coloured with a high blush, and his hand reached out, and stilled, then kept reaching until he was touching Eric’s face again. His thumb rested against the left side of Eric’s mouth, where Kent always kissed first. He leant in, and Eric leant in, and they kissed again.

*** 

“I need to convince his yeti ass that the beach will be good for his skin,” Kent was saying one afternoon as he lounged in the kitchen, his shirt off after his work-out.

“Lord, honey, you need a shower and to tell someone who cares,” Eric chirped.

“Rude. Rude and offensive and…rude,” Kent said. He plastered himself against Eric’s back and kissed his neck, sloppy and wet. “You fucking know you love my musk.”

“Is that what you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night?” Eric whacked him with the stirring spoon, then banged it into the sink and grabbed another. “Anyway why are you going on about the beach.”

“Well, bye-week,” Kent said. “Necessary holiday, and Jack made me go to Seattle last year and all it did was rain.” Kent draped himself over Eric’s shoulder and nipped at his ear. “The sun is good for salty French-Canadians.”

“Yes, because he doesn’t get enough sun here,” Eric drawled.

Kent growled and nipped at Eric’s neck again. “Baaaabe,” he wheedled. “You fucking love the beach. I thought you’d like…be on my side.”

Eric blinked, putting the spoon down and covering up the soup before turning in Kent’s arms. “Um. I do love the beach but…I can’t go with you.”

Kent’s face filtered through a couple of startled expressions. “Why? I thought you had your thesis finished? You said it’s with the editor and I thought…” He bit his lip. “I shouldn’t have assumed you’d want to like…travel with us.”

Eric felt a weird, almost electric panic making his toes and fingers tingle. “Honey, I love spending time with you two. So much. And a week at the beach sounds heavenly.”

“So why…”

“Y’all get photographed at the beach. Someone will see, they’ll…they’ll notice. I can’t put you two at risk. The paper trail of what we got goin’ on is small but…it’s still there.”

Kent’s eyes went a little haunted, dark and stormy and a little confused. “I…forgot.”

Eric blinked at him. “Forgot about the paper trail?”

“Forgot that you weren’t…” He stopped and shook his head and Eric pretended like he didn’t know how that sentence was going to end because he couldn’t let himself. “I guess I’ll…I mean it makes sense that you couldn’t um. I just…” He breathed out a sigh. “I just really wanted to spend time with you and Jack somewhere that it wouldn’t matter that it was the three of us.”

Eric bit his lip. “I know, sweetheart. But what we got goin’ on well…it is what it is.”

“Always?” Kent asked.

Eric didn’t know how to answer that, so he just didn’t.

*** 

He hadn’t meant to stay away, but neither of them reached out, and the group text was nothing more than a handful of Kent’s cat memes and Jack’s dry, ‘haha.’ Eric had done a couple of custom cakes and sent photos which the boys both loved, and he’d congratulated them both on their wins, but that was it.

And Bye Week was looming and neither of them said a word, and Eric was starting to wonder if this was the beginning of the end.

He wanted to text. Wanted to reach out and ask them for what he needed—soft hugs and kisses, words of affirmation, reassurance that was important and necessary and beloved.

But he needed to get used to living without them.

So he skyped his mama, who was trying her best with sign, and she even tried to help interpret Coach’s end of the conversation as he talked about his football boys. Eventually Eric gave up and put his processors on and waved away his mama’s apology before listening to the rest of Coach’s story.

He promised to visit soon, and told himself it wasn’t a lie just to feel better about it. But going back to Georgia was never a fun experience. He missed the summers, and the wet heat, and the peach trees in his parents’ front yard. He missed the lake, and curling up in the back of the pick-up under the stars and imagining flying off to space to find a planet with people exactly like him—Deaf and gay and accepted instead of being forced into skin that didn’t quite fit him, just to make the lives of other people easier.

It wasn’t like that here. Vegas was like an alien planet where you could look however you wanted, and do whatever you wanted, and exist as Deaf and gay and people just didn’t care. They’d stare sometimes, but they also complimented your pie and didn’t think twice about you holding your boyfriend’s hand at a Starbucks.

There were more wedding chapels than actual churches, and more gay weddings than gay wedding protests.

He had Deaf friends, and he was almost done with school, and he had an entire future ahead of him.

But it felt empty now, like he was standing on the precipice of a void and there was no telling where it was going to lead him.

He realised he’d been staring down into a bowl of cookie dough for fifteen minutes without stirring, and he was getting out the cling film to whack it in the fridge until he was mentally prepared to dedicate himself to baking, when his kitchen lights flickered. Dropping the cling film box on the counter, he hurried to the door and flung it open.

He partly expected maybe Chris, or Derek. Maybe Lardo who had been bugging him about driving down to Sedona to check out some of the galleries there after reading about a Deaf owner who showcased all Deaf artists.

But stood there looking a little sad and a little awkward was Kent. He had on a light blue snapback, backward so his cowlicks poked out of the front. His shirt was wrinkled and the jeans so big Eric was pretty sure they were Jack’s—the waist bunched up near the left side belt loop. He bit his lip, and his eyes flickered to Eric’s naked ears, then he signed, ‘Can I come in?’

Eric stepped aside, closing the door with a the click vibrating under his hand, and he turned to Kent. “Sweetheart, is everything okay?”

Kent nodded, then shook his head no, then nodded, then flopped his arms in a gesture of, ‘I don’t know.’ He dragged a hand through his hair, knocking his hat to the ground, and he didn’t bother to pick it up.

Eric did, with a slight huff, and beckoned him into the living room. “You hang tight while I get my ears on.”

‘No, wait,’ Kent started to protest, but Eric reached out and grabbed his hands to quiet him.

“Sweetheart, you look like you got a lot to say and I don’t mind listenin’ your way right now, okay?”

Kent’s cheeks pinked, and he almost looked like he was surprised Eric gave a shit enough about him to give him that. He didn’t protest anymore, and Eric tried not to read into it as he went back to his room and put his processors in. He hesitated before switching on. He had no idea why Kent looked worked up and he wasn’t sure he was prepared to hear it.

If they were ending things, he’d handle it. Financially he was more than fine, and he knew they’d compensate him. They both had promised that if the contract needed to end early, they’d pay out the remainder and make sure Eric didn’t go without.

And really, there was a piece of him that now might have given up every dime, and every piece of designer clothes, and every pair of shoes, not to lose this.

So what did that say about where he was?

Other than he was a disaster, that was fairly terrible at what he was doing.

Whatever it was, he felt like it might hurt less hearing it, than seeing it painted in a language that was all expression, and so much emotion. He wasn’t sure he could stand watching Kent’s fingers fly through the air in his sweet, lazy way to tell him he’d never be seeing Eric again.

Tones Eric didn’t always understand were easier to swallow.

He made his way back to the living room and found Kent on the sofa, worrying his hands together between his knees. When Eric sat down, Kent clamped his knees against his hands hard, and let out a puff of air. “I know I fucked up. I…pushed, and I didn’t mean to. Just…if you’re going to break up with me, can you…maybe not take it out on Jack?”

Eric blinked, startled, more than confused and wondering if maybe he wasn’t hearing any of that right because…what? “Sweetheart. I don’t…”

“I know I can be pushy and cross lines I know I shouldn’t cross. And I can be a selfish prick. I didn’t think about you or your needs, and I pushed you, and Jack’s suffering.”

Eric was momentarily confused, worried about Jack. “Sweetheart, is Jack…”

“He’s fine,” Kent said in a rush of air. “I mean…he’s worried and sad and a little mad at me because of the whole Bye Week.”

Licking his lips, Eric reached out slowly, giving Kent a chance to pull away. He offered his hand, palm up, and after what felt like an eternity, Kent took it. Their palms were warm, Kent’s sweating a little, and their fingers tangled together this side of too tight.

“I’m…not quite following, sweetheart. I need you to start over,” Eric said.

Kent blew out another sigh. “I got caught up in…a fantasy of what we were, rather than what we are. I know us being outed wouldn’t just be outing me and Jack. You’d never be left alone. Ever. And I was so fixated on being able to pretend like we’re a real couple that…”

“You,” Eric tried, but his voice failed him and he had to clear his throat. “What do you mean?”

Kent let out a strained laugh and used his other hand to wreck his hair even further. “In for a penny, eh?” He swallowed. “I like you. I mean like…I like you, like you. As more than a friend or a sugar baby. And you’re always there and the money is just so…whatever. And I know that sounds fucked to someone who doesn’t have millions of dollars and I know that makes me an asshole. But I let myself forget that you’re not our boyfriend. When Jack’s folks were here, it felt so fucking wrong because I knew you should have been there. You’re such a huge part of our lives, Bits. So I told myself I wouldn’t let it happen again. So I just…without thinking, like the prick I am, I assumed you’d…want to come with us.”

“And Jack?” Eric asked, his voice hoarse and thick.

Kent looked away. “He doesn’t talk much about it because he’s afraid it’s going to hurt.”

“You liking me?” Eric pressed.

“Him liking you,” Kent said. “Because he knows I’m afraid, and jealous…and in love with you.”

Eric’s breath hitched, and for a moment he was terrified to believe. But his gaze fixed on Kent’s face and there was such sincerity there, such utter, raw honesty he couldn’t lie to himself, even if he wanted to.

“Baby,” Eric breathed. “I…I’ve been so scared. Thinkin’, how am I supposed to go on living without you and Jack? The hole you’ll leave in me…”

“There doesn’t have to be one,” Kent said, his voice shattered. He gripped Eric’s hand harder, and shifted closer. “If you want us…if you want…”

“I want,” Eric said.

Kent moved in to kiss him, but the gesture was interrupted by Kent laughing, and crying a little, and holding Eric tight against him like if he let go, Eric would disappear and maybe this would have all been a dream.

Or maybe that was just Eric’s fear.

“You wanna take me home, baby?” Eric asked, pulling back. “And we can talk to Jack?”

“I…yeah,” Kent said, then laughed, this time the sound filled with wonder. “Yeah, I really fucking do.”

*** 

They held hands in the car, and kissed in the car park, and then in the lift when they were nearly at their floor. Kent couldn’t keep his hands off Eric, and was mumbling things about fixing it all so in the morning Eric was a boyfriend and not a sugar baby, and promised he’d be fine.

Eric laughed and said they’d worry about it later, because he didn’t care what he’d have to do, or pay back, or say or think…as long as he had this.

Jack was in the bedroom reading. Kent stopped short, then put a hand at Eric’s waist and said, “You should talk to him first. You need…the two of you need what we had.”

Eric nodded. He’d never navigated a relationship like this before. His own dating history was small and pathetic and ugly. Then Kent and Jack arrived in his life and it was terrifying and wonderful, but he still felt small and like at any second he was going to fuck it up.

He pressed his hand against the door, then curled his fingers into a fist and knocked. He wouldn’t be able to hear Jack’s answer, so he took a guess and pushed his way inside. The lights were dim, and Jack was wearing joggers and a tattered t-shirt. His hair was mussed and he had dark circles under his eyes, and was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the bed.

He looked up when Eric entered, and his eyes widened. “Bitty.”

The sound of that name hit Eric hard because it had never been that before. He managed a shaking breath, then he said, “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Jack’s jaw worked, like he was struggling with words. “Um.”

‘Is this easier?’ Eric signed.

Jack nodded his fist in a yes.

‘Can I sit with you?’

Another yes.

Eric crossed the room and shucked off shoes and his jacket and crawled until he was in front of Jack, not quite touching. ‘I’m sorry I hurt you. It wasn’t Kent’s fault.’

‘Kent said…’

‘I know,’ Eric signed, interrupting. ‘I panicked. I was afraid, because I like you.’

“I don’t think I know that sign,” Jack said, his voice low and not quite a whisper, but nearly.

“I like you,” Eric repeated in English. “You and Kent. I wanted…I was afraid because I wanted more than what we had. Because I don’t want to live without you. And I was afraid of what you might think.”

Jack licked his lips, and reached out, his hand reaching round and brushing his fingertips at the freshly shorn back of Eric’s undercut. “I like you. When I bought you the oven, Kent asked me. And I didn’t…I hadn’t thought. Then I did. But Shitty said it would be wrong because of the contract.”

“Yeah,” Eric said, breathy and small. “We should get rid of that thing.”

Jack’s breath hitched, and then he signed, ‘Eric,’ before he kissed him.

*** 

It ends like this. 

Eric knew the ins and outs of fucking Kent. He could read what he wanted in the simplest gesture, and he could give it to him. Now he was learning Jack, and it was learning what it was like to be overwhelmed by him, and possessed by him, and loved by him. Eric had never felt so consumed, pressed between Kent’s legs, Kent’s hot, full cock against his back, and Jack between Eric’s knees.

Jack’s mouth hot and wet and insistent as it sucked on the head of Eric’s dick, so hard it didn’t even feel like there was a condom there. Jack’s hands leaving fingerprint bruises on the insides of Eric’s thighs. Eric’s signs were short, mumbling with fingers, and the rumble of Kent’s laughter behind him as he tried to interpret correctly, “Harder, more, yes, suck me.”

Jack was sweeter than Eric expected, too. He held on tight, and cupped Eric’s face every time he kissed him. He surrounded Eric with his body, hands on his waist, on his ass, curved over him like he could protect Eric from all the dark ugliness of the world.

Falling in love with him was like falling in love with the eye of a storm. The only calm in the raging terror swirling round them, never ending.

But Eric felt safe.

Jack took care of the contract. He said Shitty cried, then kissed him, and told him, “Brah, I knew the two of you would figure it out.”

Eric tried to give the money back, but they wouldn’t take it. “Call it a pie-fund,” Kent insisted, nibbling on the inside of Eric’s thigh as Eric reclined against Jack’s torso. Jack’s fingers were in his hair, careful not to disturb the implants, but also not afraid to acknowledge they were there—part of Eric when he wanted, and not when Eric was done with listening to the world. “We fucking know how expensive all that gluten-free shit is.”

“You do realise that I’d get a second job if I had to, if it meant I could keep Jack eating baked things,” Eric admonished.

Jack chuckled behind him, and pushed his nose against the back of Eric’s neck. “Yes, but why would you when your boyfriends collectively could purchase a small country.”

“Gross. Y’all are so gross,” Eric said, but he was smiling. Mostly because he knew that in the end, money didn’t matter.

What mattered was how they loved him. How Kent came home with cheap, shitty kitchen towels that had peaches printed on them. Or how Jack saved every morning selfie Eric took for him. Of how they did go to the beach, and they did hold hands, and neither Jack nor Kent gave a shit who took a photo of what.

What mattered was that Eric was allowed to be himself. Was that Kent kissed the left side of his mouth first, and Jack always used Eric’s sign name, even when they were speaking.

What mattered was Eric had a ring on a chain, hanging under his shirt. It was white and rose gold, and it had a date engraved on the inside. Kent kissed him before slipping it to Jack, who fastened it round his neck. “We might not ever get married,” Kent said, cupping Eric’s cheek, “but that doesn’t matter.”

“Because what we have is perfect,” Eric echoed. His eyes were hot and wet, but Jack kissed the tears away, then kissed his mouth before he was given over to Kent’s waiting arms, and he was kissed again.


End file.
